The Daemon Within
by Sylvia1
Summary: After a long night of terrorizing Gothamites, Dr. Jonathan Crane's secluded shack is the scene of a dangerous confrontation. Barely escaping with his life, Crane thinks he's quite fortunate. But is there more to this curse than meets the eye? Complete!
1. An Uninvited Guest

The Daemon Within  
Rating: M (or R) for cursing, gore, blood, and potential suicide  
Summary: After a long night of terrorizing Gothamites, Dr. Jonathan Crane's secluded shack is the scene of a dangerous confrontation. In the middle of night a large, hairy creature bursts through the walls and chases him through a hay field. Barely escaping with his life, Crane thinks he's quite fortunate. But is there more to this curse than meets the eye? Can Batman find and help Crane before it's too late? And who exactly is this Romulus fellow anyway?

Written for the LJ Community werewolfbigbang

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Chapter 1: An Uninvited Guest

This was by far his favorite hideout yet. It was remote and located in the middle of a large hayfield. The remoteness was simply a convenience really. It meant his work was able to move forward without too much interference, either Bat related or otherwise. The hayfield – well, that was just a nice accessory to his namesake. Something about a dilapidated shack in the middle of a giant hayfield just made him giddy. He made a path around the building before going in the front door; it was a habit of his to thoroughly check out the perimeter of each of his locations. He couldn't guess how many times he'd come across some pathetic robber or random homeless people trying to claim his property. Honestly, didn't they understand there was a pecking order in Gotham City?

Once he made certain the property was safe, he pushed open the wooden door. The room was completely devoid of light thanks to the plywood planks he'd put up over the windows when he first moved in. He wanted to be absolutely certain not to raise suspicion, even though it meant he'd have to fumble his way across the room whenever he returned from his late night exploits. Familiarizing himself with the layout took some time, but after a few weeks he knew enough to no longer ram his knee into the corner table or trip over a box of chemicals; the worst part was scrambling around afterwards to verify all the toxic ones were safely sealed and upright. Even a brilliant chemical mastermind was prone to occasional clumsiness. It was practically a physical requirement of the title.

He pulled the newspaper out that he'd shoved under his arm and dropped the crumpled thing onto his desk. Well, it wasn't exactly what _he_ would deem a desk, but he would have to pretend at least for a little longer. The chair creaked as he sat down, mindless of his lithe build, and he fingered the dangling light switch for a moment before the green light from the lamp's cover filled the tiny shack. He'd stolen it from the University oh so long ago, but he still felt it added a certain sophistication to his otherwise dreary surroundings.

With a tug, the linen mask came off and he sighed appreciatively at feeling the cool night air against his damp face. One of these days he was going to insert some type of cooling mechanism inside to prevent the trickles of sweat. He laid the mask down next to the recently acquired newspaper, and then did a double take at the headline.

POLICE IDENTIFY BITE MARKS ON 3 VICTIMS

Crane arched an eyebrow, and flattened out the slightly damp paper to read the details. Apparently there was some kind of wild creature out slaughtering Gothamites in the dead of night. While typically he would completely endorse the latest mask to make his or her mark in Gotham, Crane did have his limits. He examined the grainy black and white photos as best he could from the horrible printing, but the damage was a bit more than "bite marks." Unlike most cities, Gotham was known for playing down its vicious news instead of sensationalizing it.

He stretched and went over to his duffle bag to change clothes, but his mind was still ruminating over the pictures he'd seen. Crane had performed numerous autopsies during his time as a medical intern, and even these days he sometimes did them after exposing a victim to his latest batch of fear toxin. The brain was always Crane's examination goal, and the body itself was usually well intact. These bodies however were gutted, the entire stomach cavity completely cleaned out, with parts of the intestines still hanging over the edges like a hurriedly opened gift. The creature was doing more than biting its victims – he was eating them.

The ferocity of the damage really had him shaken though. No insane dog or vicious cat could do that; and even bears and wolves weren't that thorough. No, the more Crane tried to pin the actions on an animal, the more he knew he was off track. This was something with far greater intelligence than some hungry woodland creature.

Killer Croc was the next suspect that popped into his mind. He was certainly prone to eating people, but he'd only eaten parts of his victims. Much like the canines and felines that roamed the city, Croc would maybe gnaw on an arm or bite off a foot, but never purposeful evisceration. He was a cannibal certainly, but Crane couldn't recall him ever devouring the innards. Perhaps a new mask then? Gotham was certainly getting crowded. He sighed dumping a cold bottle of water into his hands and rubbing down his face. It was a damnably hot evening.

He pulled out his rugged copy of Shirley Jackson's _The Haunting of Hill House_ and dropped down into his sleeping bag. He'd just finished the section where Eleanor spends a frightful night in the old abandoned house, which was coincidentally one of his favorite scenes from the book, when he heard a noise outside. They were heavy sounds, several of them, as though something was walking across the dirt pathway in front of the shack. Crane's logical mind tried to stay cool as the images from the newspaper started springing unbidden to his mind. Whatever it was, he finally decided, it was large enough to make noise as it stalked; therefore, it was probably large enough to react to fear toxin.

Crane closed the book and grabbed his canister off the nearby chest he used as a night stand. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. Had someone followed him here? He slipped the outfit on again over his bare shoulders, and shivered a bit as he pulled on the mask. Not from the chill of the moisture within, but out of the anticipation. It likely wasn't the Bat – if he was here there'd be no way Crane would have been warned. Meaning it was probably some intruder who had made a very bad decision to cut through this particular hay field. With a click he turned out the light and creaked open the door.

The cool night air was refreshing and across from him was nothing except waves and waves of rolling hay beneath starry skies. But he trusted his instincts. He pulled back into a shadowy corner of the front porch and waited, his watchful eyes searching for any hint of the intruder. Minutes passed, and the wind died down. The hay field grew still, and in the distance the familiar sound of crickets and frogs were silent. Crane waited, barely noticing his trembling hands and now questioning his instincts to return inside. He could handle this. He clutched his fingers around the compressed gas can as he waited.

The roar that broke the silence was not at all what he'd expected. Something large had crashed into the back of his shack, near his sleeping bag was if he heard right. His heart was pounding as grunts and snarls emerged from within. Crane took a few steps away from the shack, knowing full well that he should run. The creature was bashing around his room, knocking bottles and chemicals around in its wake. Crane turned suddenly and started running; but upon moving at full speed, he heard the snarls subside from behind. A pit in his belly formed as he realized that the thing had heard him.

He pushed his legs faster, splitting through the tall hay as quickly as he could. From behind him he could hear the heavy trampling of the creature moving ever closer. Crane leapt over an old decrepit fence and kept moving, not daring to look back. A mere few paces behind, he heard a break in the creature's gait: it had leapt the fence as well. Only it took a lot longer for it to hit the ground and Crane began to realize that he wasn't going to outrun this beast. His lungs were burning and he knew his pace couldn't last forever. So he stopped suddenly, and turned hoping to catch the creature right in the face.

But as he spun around, his finger already depressing the trigger of the canister in his hand, the hairy beast's head was far higher – not to mention closer – than he'd anticipated. It pulled its arm down and shouldered him hard. Crane flew through the air and hit the unsympathetic hay with a heavy thud, a burst of pain and heat firing up from his shoulder. He didn't have long. The beast halted and he knew it was airborne; he turned his eyes toward the sky and saw the creature almost in slow motion, its large muscular shoulders covered in dark grey fur against the orange Harvest Moon above. Its face was keenly wolfish and two clawed arms were outstretched towards him as murder weapon of choice.

Crane's hand moved much faster than he remembered telling it to, but suddenly the gas canister was between them, dividing him from the falling wolf creature. Its mouth was open wide, showing all two rows of pointed teeth, and Crane released the trigger. A large puff of green gassy liquid filled the creature's face, and half of the stream went straight into its mouth. Crane smiled as the beast suddenly brought its arms up to its face in confusion, giving him just enough room to roll out of the way as the creature landed where he'd just been.

Pulling himself slowly to his hands and knees, Crane started crawling away from the beast. It was hacking and whimpering behind him, and he smiled to himself. His fear toxin really was quite a wonderful invention. Then a searing pain flashed up his left calf and Crane screamed against it, the tears stinging his eyes as the thing pulled him backwards. He looked over his shoulder to see its jaw locked on his leg, the long streams of blood gushing out of the wound; the beast, though dazed, had dug both clawed hands into the earth to keep leverage.

Crane squeezed his eyes shut against the tears, and flung his arm over his shoulder, shooting another stream out into the beast's gleaming yellow eyes. It roared in shock, released its bite, and Crane was on his feet again running away as fast as his legs would carry him. The roar behind him turned into blood curdling shrieks as the fear effect finally kicked in, and Crane wondered not for the first time tonight why he ever incorporated a delay in the fear gas.


	2. A Hellhole of a Hideout

Putting up chapter 2 of this piece a little bit earlier than I intended. I felt bad updating Short of a Dark Lord so early, and not doing the same for this piece. And just so you know - I absolutely love getting reviews and feedback, so please let me know what you think as you go. =)

Enjoy!

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Chapter 2: A Hellhole of a Hideout

By the time he reached one of his hideouts within the city, his left leg was killing him. He'd managed one or two miles away from his secluded yet suddenly compromised shack, and he'd been lucky to find a long thin pipe he could use as a makeshift crutch while cutting through a construction site. The entire experience had drained him. It was bad enough that he'd had to rip off a piece of his costume to hastily bandage the wound, but the blood loss was now making him more lightheaded than he cared to admit. As he pushed the heavy door closed behind him, he was already scouring the decrepit room for where he'd placed his medical kit. His mind felt foggy and it was difficult to focus. He gave a longing look at the bed in the next room, still clean and made exactly as he'd left it, but the doctor in him knew that his poor condition would only lead to him bleeding out in his sleep.

He stumbled across the room, putting most of his weight on the pipe as he opened closets and cabinets searching for the kit. With each door he opened, his anxiety grew. Had he moved it to his shack? No, he made it a point to keep a medical kit in every hideout he kept. He'd been in enough crossfire to know how likely a bullet wound was in Gotham. The bathroom, the kitchen, and what passed as a living room – all were bereft of it. Finally, on a fleeting chance, he checked the laundry room. To be honest, he always avoided that room. Pieces of the ceiling were slowly separating from the drywall above, hanging like moldy bee hives from the constant moisture damage above. The only time he went into the room was when he had laundry to do, and he always had to run it twice – once without clothes to get the mud out of the system, and finally the load to get his clothes clean. Some of his fellows might have reveled in the filth, but clean clothes were an absolute necessity to Crane.

He creaked the door open, placed his hand on the frame to steady himself, and reached a hand into the room to flip the switch to the hanging light bulb. It flickered for a moment before deciding to stay on. The stalagmites of peeling wall above had gotten longer and the dark stain had filled the entire ceiling. Jesus, when had he been here last? Certainly more than a month ago. As he racked his bleary mind, the stench of the mold finally hit his nostrils, and he gagged involuntarily at the pungent odor. The mold had definitely decided to claim the room. He held his sleeve up to his nose, and finally spied the closed medical kit on the dryer. He vaguely recalled having to patch up his arm after a spew of hot water had erupted from the washer, but sighed in annoyance with himself nonetheless. He snatched the kit and made sure to close the door behind him. This hideout was not going to work much longer: it had been condemned when he first entered it, but now it was a borderline hazard zone.

He hobbled over to the kitchen first; he'd need some fresh water to sterilize any of the instruments just to be safe. The moldy room had made matters a bit more difficult. He hadn't thought of the consequences of leaving his medical kit there at the time, but now he berated his lack of forethought. He turned on the pipes, listening curiously to the groaning as the water travelled through them. The mud sputtered out first. Crane knew better than to stand too close until clear hot water was coming out. He filled a bowl and then headed to the living room.

Carefully he lowered himself onto the couch, kicked off his shoes and started to work on the leg. The bandages, he decided, were no longer usable. He shuddered at the thought of putting the potentially moldy items near his oozing wound. Yes, the blood was not coming out as profusely as before but it was still coming. He'd probably agitated it with his walking, even with a makeshift crutch. The wounds were deep but surprisingly not as bad as Crane had expected. He pulled off his mask to get a better view of the wound and swabbed some alcohol around the edges, hissing against the pain. At least it kept him focused. Next, he dipped a needle into the hot water and started stitching the wounds. God, this was always the worst part. When he was finally finished, he took a moment to catch his breath and wipe the sweat off his forehead. He pushed himself to his feet and hobbled into the kitchen to pull out one of the bottles of water he'd stored there. Knowing he needed the fluids, he downed half before making his way back to the couch and elevating his legs on the opposite arm. He pushed some pillows under his head and finally allowed himself to drift to sleep. What an exhausting evening!

* * *

He was conducting his research: some victim in a suit was cowering at his feet, howling in agony. Crane was crouched over him, his lips pulled back into a wide grin. At least it felt like a grin. He put his fingers up to his face and felt sharp teeth, his mouth much further forward on his face than it should be. And suddenly his mouth was around the man's belly, the teeth sinking in to the warm flesh and the screams of the suited subject reached a fever pitch before dying out completely. The blood was hot and metallic in his throat. Crane was screaming, willing his body to back off, to release his grip, but he could no longer control it. And the blood kept flowing, pooling around them both.

When he finally woke, the sun was high in the sky and shining into his eyes. His head hurt and so did his right shoulder, recalling vague images of being knocked through the air and the beast lunging at him again. His body was stiff, and pulling up into a sitting position was more difficult than he'd expected. But at least he was alive.

He looked down at his hands and chest, half expecting them to be covered in blood, but thankfully none was to be found. Wandering into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and tried to find something appetizing. He kept nothing perishable, only canned and freezer food. Finally, he chose a microwavable meal and popped it into the microwave – probably the most well-kept appliance within the shabby building. Then he went back into the living room to turn on the radio. He always kept it on the AM news channels – it was the only way he could get information in this hellhole of a hideout. The food beeped that it was finished, and as he made his way back into the kitchen he realized that he wasn't using his pipe crutch. In fact he wasn't hobbling at all.

He leaned down, pulling off the strips of clothing he'd used as bandages and viewed the blood crusted wound again. He propped his leg over the kitchen sink and let some cool water fall over the wound. No pain, not even a hint of discomfort. Using the makeshift bandage he scrubbed at the wound until all he could see were the relatively clean stitches from last night. The skin itself looked perfect. The stitches were fresh, but the skin around them wasn't even raw. God, how long had he been sleeping?

He rushed back into the living room and turned the volume up on the radio, waiting for the date to be declared. He shook his head slowly as the DJ confirmed that he'd only slept a single evening – how was it possible? Pulling out his food and digging into his mashed potatoes and chicken, Crane wondered what in the world he'd run into last night. And what the hell it had done to him.


	3. A New Look

Chapter 3: A New Look

The weeks flew by much faster than he'd anticipated. Although he'd looked into moving to another hideout, both of his usual locations were compromised. In fact, one of them had two cop cars parked outside of it, and a stream of police tape segmenting it from public view. Luckily that particular location wasn't one he regularly used for fear toxin supply storage. At least he didn't think so. Sadly, the second location was in even worse disrepair than his current home. The windows had been boarded up and the second story floor had completely collapsed onto the first. Considering the odds, he was quite fortunate to have his little nook of Gotham, even if it was rather disgustingly unhealthy. He would have to just take precautions against the mold and make the best of it.

He was slowly acquiring supplies for a new batch of his toxin, though the process was rather tedious since he was determined not to go out at night. The suppliers were more than happy to meet with him during the day, but of course their prices were higher considering Crane's costume wasn't quite as disturbing as it was in the dead of night. As such, he had to trim down his food consumption to the bare minimum – though to be honest he didn't eat much anyway. Finally after three weeks of toiling he had finally gathered enough chemicals and tools to begin his research once more. It was almost as if the attack in the hay field had never happened.

In fact, he hadn't put much thought into that nighttime assault lately. He'd been so wrapped up in the day-to-day requirements of being a malicious chemical genius. But one Saturday evening, just after he'd finished setting up his lab the way he wanted and had popped a frozen pizza into the microwave, he'd gone to his room to change clothes and noticed the strangest thing in the mirror. He paused, fumbling to put his glasses on to get a better look, and stared hard at his reflection. His arms looked firm and well-built, the muscles larger than he ever recalled having. He traced the definition with his other hand, noticing the same odd occurrence on his other arm. And his stomach! He shuddered with nervous laughter at the stern six-pack – a completely different appearance from the scrawny hollow concave he was used to seeing. It was as though he'd been doing straight crunches and push-ups every day for weeks instead of gathering chemicals. He stretched his shoulder, noticing that the pain he'd once had there from the attack was completely gone.

He went over to the bed, pulling his trousers off as he went so that he was stripped down to his briefs. He flung his toned leg up so he could examine the bite mark again. The skin still looked perfect, even though the stitches were still neatly intact. Crane had been too suspicious to remove them immediately despite how healthy it appeared that day after the assault, but now he was fairly confident he could take care of them without causing too much damage: with his surprising new physique, why shouldn't he try it? Fetching a small pair of scissors and tweezers, he returned to the bedroom and started snipping the threads, piece by piece. And as he removed them, there was minor pain but nothing terrible. With each strand he removed, a tiny hole was left behind. But as he moved on to the second then third stands, he paused. The first hole he'd created closed up so quickly it looked like it'd never existed.

As he worked, the second and finally his most recent stitch sealed shut. His hands started to tremble, and he rushed through the last few only to stare intently as the last of the wounds disappeared, leaving only his clear skin behind. He put a hand over his mouth, trying to wrap his logical mind around this medical marvel. Curiously, he took the small scissors and cut into the back of his hand, wincing slightly at the pain but keeping his eyes on the wound. The crimson blood oozed out obediently, but after a couple of minutes the wound closed up without so much as a scar.

"This is impossible," he whispered, his eyes wide. But he couldn't deny the evidence in front of him. So now he was left with two options: did he move on with his research as though this hadn't happened, or did he change the focus of his interests onto this new variable?

He wiped the blood from the back of his hand, his mind reeling with the possibilities of what this could mean. Batman would find it much more difficult to beat him to a pulp with such speedy regeneration. But how long would this last? Was it perhaps only temporary?

He went back into the kitchen and pulled his pizza out of the microwave, turned the radio on, and sat down to enjoy his meal. The DJ on the show was commenting on the news reports.

"…much happening these last few nights. Those animal attacks must have really scared off a few of those criminal kooks, eh Susan?"

"John, I don't know if that's – "

"I'm just saying, they start having these bodies show up and the city goes quiet. If it's a hoax, then it's one damn clever one. Let's take our first caller."

Crane smiled to himself as he dived into the fourth slice, surprised by his own appetite. John must be new to town. You simply didn't get on the airwaves and start talking about how quiet the city was, not in Gotham. It was like an outright challenge. And he felt more than ready to take on the Bat once more.


	4. A Trap for a Bat

Happy New Year everybody? Got your resolutions figured out yet? I'm still ironing out mine, while cooking food and prepping for festivities tonight. But I did find the time to come by and drop off an update. Enjoy!

Chapter 4: A Trap for a Bat

Rain was pouring atop the tin roof, creating a roar of noise within the large warehouse. It had taken him longer than he anticipated to pinpoint the precise location to target. The first place he'd wasted two days staking out had been the scene of a mob battle the night before. And of course, it ended in the building being caught on fire, a careless act completely heedless of the expensive and lucrative chemicals within. Honestly, Crane couldn't wait until Joker or Dent took the rest of the lagging gangs out so he wouldn't have to deal with this kind of stupidity. An entire two days wasted, and another two days spent trying to locate the next target. It was tedious work, checking, verifying, and rechecking the building and the contents within. But it was worth it, even if it was across town.

Tonight he'd be waiting for the Bat to appear, and once he showed all Crane had to do was drop a few pellets into the barrels of chemicals. The entire complex would be filled with the toxin. This time it wouldn't matter if he had a gas mask or not, it would be absorbed through his very skin. Crane had already taken the antidote and given himself plenty of time to absorb the compound, so it would be little more than a mild nuisance for him. But the Bat would drop instantly into horrified screams. What a beautiful sight!

Clouds had filled the sky by midday and with them came the flooding rain, masking the trailing daylight outside. But he knew his trap would be irresistible for the Bat. The last few days were spent doing more than staking out this location, he was also spreading rumors, planting seeds of curiosity and fear within the underbelly of Gotham. The sleazy nightclubs, the frequented dirty restaurants – they were the typical places he might look for information. He'd done the same thing previously as a setup for the other warehouse but the mob had ruined his plans, as he hoped Batman would realize. The last thing he needed was a confused adversary across town still picking up the pieces from a failed attempt. No, he had to hope the Batman could figure out the obvious, even with his "all brawn, no brain" methods.

Crane pried loose the lids of two large barrels. He hadn't even needed the crowbar to lift them off completely, and he smiled at his newfound physical prowess. This would be a glorious night. Across the building he heard the tiniest sound of clanging metal almost hidden by the pounding rain, and hunkered down behind the barrels in preparation. As expected, a dark shape was slinking across the catwalk above, probably hoping to jump down and surprise him. The Batman could be so predictable sometimes.

Slowly the shape moved, and just as it stopped above Crane, he felt he could chance a movement to get this started. He reached one hand up over the barrel, the pellets clutched within, when a sharp pain shot through it. Retracting his hand revealed a large metallic bat shaped object protruding from the back; he pulled it out in frustration. At the same time, a thump from behind told him the Batman had just landed.

"Come out, Scarecrow. Whatever you're planning, it won't work."

Crane smirked. It didn't sound as though he was even wearing his gas mask, the fool. With a grunt, Crane shoved against the barrel, tipping the brownish green liquid onto the floor in the direction the Bat was standing. Of course Batman didn't take any chances, and took higher ground on top of a table, though he did look a bit surprised.

"I see you were able to find me. Excellent, perhaps you're not as dumb as you look."

The Bat narrowed his eyes. Excellent.

"I suppose you're wondering: What exactly is the Scarecrow planning to do? Can't say that I blame you; with a dangerous man like myself out on the loose, who knows what vile deeds I may be up to?"

Batman's eyes flicked down for a moment. "What have you done to yourself?" Was there a tad bit of concern in his gravelly voice?

Crane looked down at his feet, then he noticed his hand. The hand he'd just pulled the Batarang out of was certainly healed, the blood simply sitting on top of his clothes instead of oozing from the wound. However now there was a thick tuft of fur sticking out of it. He held it up curiously. "What did i_I_/i do? This was i_your_/i stupid Batarang!"

Crane was panicking, he must have been. His heart was racing, and the colors of the room were becoming bright and vibrant, as though someone had turned the contrast up high on his vision. Batman was moving quickly towards him, and Crane held out his clutched hand in warning. "Don't you dare. If I mix this with the… with the…"

His arm was shaking uncontrollably and it was becoming difficult to speak. His tongue felt thick and immobile. What in the world was happening to him? Then pain shot from the base of his spine up his back and into his shoulders. He cried out, shutting his eyes shut against the pain as he hit the ground. The mask was being pulled off, and although he wanted to keep it on, he couldn't move. The pain was excruciating and he vaguely noticed Batman pull the pellets out of his hand. But it didn't look like his hand at all anymore: the fingers were elongated, the palm was extending, and Crane's eyes went wide as he realized whose claws they looked like.

"Bat – man?" he whispered, his voice sounding hoarse and guttural; nothing like his normal smooth tone. What was he turning into? And as he slipped away to unconsciousness he felt the pellets fall silently from his other hand and onto the cold metal floor. In his mind's eye he could see them rolling straight into the chemical. If the Batman was howling in terror, he doubted he'd be around to see it. What a shame.

* * *

He lunged, mouth wide and arms outspread at the Bat. Were those large claws his? No, surely not. The Bat was fast though his eyes were wide, and he dodged out of the way. But the fear pellets had already begun to release and he was losing his balance. Easy prey. The toxin smelled horrible, almost like ammonia, and it burned his eyes. Odd, he didn't recall it even having a scent before. Outside. He had to get out of here.

The night was cold as the rain poured down upon him. He was free and running along the back alleys and black pavement of the city. Bright moving lights blinded him, so he avoided the streets and kept to the shadows. But he needed food. Always so very hungry. He clawed absently at his stomach in a foolish attempt to stop the hunger, but the pain only made it worse. What a ridiculous response, Crane thought to himself.

Crimson and spicy: the smell of blood. It was not terribly fresh but still there. He followed the scent, bounding easily between buildings and rooftops. Then in the distance, a bundled up homeless woman was keeping warm under a makeshift tarp, a fire burning within an old trashcan. She was menstruating, Crane realized, but there was no way to tell the beast or even direct it. Like a prowling lion it moved soundlessly and effortlessly between the large trash bins. The frail woman barely had time to scream before his teeth sunk into her soft belly. No she hadn't been menstruating after all. But the baby wasn't doing well, hence all the blood. Eventually her struggling stopped as the beast gorged itself on the woman and the dying fetus within. Crane couldn't take it anymore. He turned away from the beast and wondered if the night would ever end.


	5. The Scarecrow's New Clothes

Hope you all are enjoying this! Decided to go ahead and post the next chapter since I'm snowed in at least for today and tomorrow. Please feel free to drop a review or message me a comment if you like. Reviews help to keep me writing. =)

Chapter 5: The Scarecrow's New Clothes

The smell was horrible. It smelled like old rank milk and rotting fruits and vegetables. Crane opened his eyes rather reluctantly to see an old can of beans emblazoned with a happy pig – it was even smiling at him. As soon as he realized he was inside of a dumpster, he leaped up to get out as quickly as possible, pushing up on the heavy lid with a grunt before climbing out into the alley. The lid clanged closed behind him, and only then did he notice the distinctly cold breeze. He gasped in embarrassment as he realized he was stark naked with merely a few remnants of trash on his bare chilled skin, his face turning bright red as he looked for something to use. Grudgingly, he turned back to the trash canister, poking in his head and an arm to see if something was left of his clothes. The very thought of his beautiful mask being covered in grime and filth made his heartbeat skip up an octave. His clothes though weren't there, and Crane couldn't decide whether to be pleased or annoyed. He wasn't sure where his mask was now, not to mention the rest of his costume. He finally spied a set of clothes that would fit him unfortunately: a nasty set of pink sweatpants and a grungy white T-shirt with cheerful handwriting, 'Gotham: Come Visit the City that Never Sleeps!' Beneath the writing was a cheerful coffee cup in front of a black and white city skyline. It had moth holes eaten throughout the bottom section, but at least it wasn't covered in maggots.

He shuddered, realizing just how ridiculous he was going to look walking down the street in this getup. However he couldn't exactly be picky. He needed to find out where he was and how to get back to his hideout. He pulled up the pink pants, noticing they only came down to his calves. Beautiful. The T-shirt fit better though, and he straightened it out absently as though he were flattening out one of the finely tailored suits he used to enjoy at the Asylum. Of course the only question remaining though, was what exactly happened last night? He tried to remember, tentatively pressing his memory banks for information, a bit nervous about what he might find. There was the warehouse, and that strange pain he'd felt. He recalled shaking, and the Batman approaching him like some mad beast. But then something else… oh yes, the pellets of the toxin rolling into the spilled vats. And for some reason he'd passed out, but anything beyond that was a mystery.

Was he ill? How had he gotten from the warehouse to a trash dump? And why the hell was he naked? He didn't feel sore, perhaps a little achy in places but he chalked that up to spending the night in a dumpster. Tentatively he made his way out to the street, wandering down next to the shops for any sign of where he was. 10th street and Vreeland Avenue that would mean he was in north Midtown, near Monolith Square. That was clear across town! Was the Bat trying to be funny, playing some sort of joke on him?

He started the long trek back to the hideout, his fury rising with every step. He probably could have tried the subway, but seeing as he didn't have any money or even his fear gas, that would be potentially difficult. And considering his current state, it was probably best if he didn't attract too much attention. For the most part the streets were empty. The sun had just started to rise and it was a Saturday after all, but as more people and vehicles appeared, Crane had to resort to the back alleys to continue his trek. At least it was morning though; most of the gangs and druggies would be passed out somewhere, slinking back to their holes somewhere out of sight.

After a few hours, he could tell he was getting closer to the Narrows. The blank empty stare of the homeless and the mindless ramblings of the crazies were telling of their fear toxin overdose. Crane couldn't help but grin as he passed one man repeatedly banging his head against a brick wall, the bloody smear dripping down the crevices. How beautiful it was to see the fruits of his labor. Damn it was good to be closer to home!

Eventually he came to Gotham River. A large sign had been placed over the bridge proclaiming it closed, but that wasn't the path he typically used anyway. He decided the quickest method was best considering that he had no weaponry, so he took the squeaky old freight elevator down on the side of one decrepit storage building.

Bottom level: straight into the old sewers. The expansive dirt caverns had been everything: from a Gotham waste dump to passageways for the Underground Railroad. He hopped out, enjoying the smell of the dirt and the empty blackness surrounding him. He listened for any movement before pulling a flashlight out of a nearby crate and heading deeper into the tunnels. Most of the lesser groups kept clear of this place; they thought it haunted, and who could blame the superstition? Crane's footsteps echoed against the empty walls of the tunnel, the sound traveling down caverns which so rarely received visitors. Personally Crane thought the place suited him just fine. Only a few of the masks even used it – Crane himself had originally discovered it thanks to a gregarious Joker one morning. As far as Crane knew, they were the only ones that used it.

It took him a good half hour before he came to a rickety ladder that led up to an old uncovered manhole. The familiar scent of the surrounding bushes were almost overwhelming once he reached the streets, but he knew he was in familiar territory and no longer had to be as cautious. True there were some gangs that had found their way into the Narrows, but those were few and far between. Most of the people within the island were mad or near to being mad. Meaning it was quite easy to push their fragile minds, especially for him. Making it one of the prime reasons he preferred hideouts in this district.

He made his way back to his hideout, and started peeling off his clothing as soon as he'd locked the front door. The odor from the garments made his stomach turn, and he was more than eager to soak in a nice clean tub. A few minutes later, steeping amidst his lavender bubble bath, his mind could finally unwind somewhat and instead turned to the confusion that the day had been. He glanced at the clock, only one in the afternoon and it felt like he'd woken up days ago. He stretched his body under the white suds, wishing he could pierce the emptiness that had filled his memories. He was blocking something out, that much was obvious, but he couldn't tell what. He did know that the more he thought on it, the more his stomach seemed to ache. As he stepped out of the warm water and into the cool bathroom air, his stomach was cramping quite badly.

Feebly he clutched his stomach, hunched forward like one of the many gargoyles poised on the Gotham Cathedrals. Still dripping with suds he rushed to the toilet and hurled his innards.

After a few minutes his stomach certainly felt better, but his eyes grew wide at what he saw in the contents of the porcelain bowl: a long serpentine S-shaped coil that could only be part of an intestine. A small intestine even, his acute mind corrected. He wanted to vomit again, but not only did he know he had nothing else to puke, but he was also afraid of what else he'd see. He flushed and watched the intestine get slurped up into the pipes of Gotham's sewer system. It had surely seen worse than some partially digested entrails, but that didn't make Crane feel any better.

He washed his face with icy cold water, and dressed, his gaze distant as his mind churned. They were intestines, and not only that but i_human_/i intestines to be exact. Crane's persistently logical mind even flashed up images of cadavers showing exactly where that particular section was located, and guessing what gender the victim probably had been. He brushed his teeth with as much minty paste as he could squeeze onto his toothbrush – one, two, three times. But it didn't matter how many times he did it, the image still wouldn't be erased from his mind. He left the bathroom, noticing momentarily how pale and shaky he appeared in the mirror, and shuffled into the kitchen. He pulled out a glass, fetched a bottle of water, and eased himself down on the couch. It didn't do any good to calm his spinning head.

How could he have eaten a woman's intestines? Not even the Batman was capable of force feeding him, though that kind of tactic would explain why his mind had blocked it out. But the nudity? The dumpster? He dragged a hand through his wet hair. The pieces just weren't adding up. Somewhere between Batman at the warehouse and the dumpster this morning, he'd partaken in cannibalism. And although Crane had to admit he had a certain fascination and understanding for cannibalism, it was completely from a scientific standpoint. Never would he actually want to eat another person.

He let out a breath shakily. The water was cool on his throat, and it was also the least likely to upset his sensitive stomach. He turned the switch on the radio, and closed his eyes for a moment. Hopefully the business of Gotham would turn his mind away from the horrific day he'd had.

"… like channel 62: Your number one station for news, sports, and all the hits you've been craving! We're currently covering the latest events from Gotham's Animal Attacks. This is John and Susan in Gotham's Daily News Bites. So Susan, just as a recap for our listeners, how many bodies have been found now?"

"I believe the tally's up to 5 now, John. Three from last month, and two from last night."

Crane's eyes shot open. He scrambled to turn up the volume.

"Now the two from last night are a real mess, right? At first the police thought there was just one animal on the loose, and now there might be two."

"That's right, John. The killings last night were declared to be the result of two separate animals. The attacks were committed across town and the time of death was at around the same time of night."

"So my question is this: why aren't the police considering this second murderer a copycat? I mean, Gotham's had her fair share of those."

"True, but the killers are clearly not human, John. Judging from the bite marks, and the state of the victims, police claim the creatures could either be mountain lions or bears."

"Lions and bears? Oh my!"

The duo laughed that ridiculous, fake laugh and Crane switched it off. He'd heard more than enough. As much as he hated to admit it, he was starting to get a good idea of what had happened last night. Although Crane wasn't much for television or film, he'd read enough horror novels to have a good idea of what his symptoms could mean. It in fact had been nagging at him from the back of his mind ever since he'd woken up in the dumpster, but his scientific skepticism had kept him straight. But now the odds were stacking up against him, and like it or not, Crane had to admit the possibility.

The creature that had bitten him had somehow turned him into… well, whatever the creature was. And although the word lycanthropy immediately popped into his head, Crane shuddered at the thought. Was he really willing to blame the supernatural for this series of events?

He sighed, taking a long drink from his glass. It was madness to believe such things. Perhaps if he thought of his condition as a disease, it would be easier to diagnose. Diseases were something he understood. He thought over his symptoms, starting with his first realization that something was off. The wound: the bite in his leg that had healed so quickly. Was there any scientific explanation? He furrowed his brow. No, nothing that he'd ever heard of; certainly not in the scientific world. That would leave the fairly impossible option still available. But how could he test it?

If he remembered the horror novels he'd read, silver had been a common weakness. Did he have any silver lying around? He headed into the bedroom and started rummaging through the closet. This was where he typically tossed discarded belongings from his test subjects – items he couldn't immediately use, such as wallets, credit cards, and the like. Surely there'd be something silver about. He pulled out a handful of purses, some of them still stained with blood, and started dumping them, sorting through them piece by piece.

Then his finger brushed against cold metal, except what started as a cold sensation turned to a fiery pain. He pulled his hand back with a gasp. Cautiously, he moved aside the handkerchiefs and pressed powder cases to find a detailed silver lipstick case. He swallowed hard, staring at his unsuspecting adversary with a mixture of curiosity and dread. Tentatively, he grazed it once more, and again the pain shot through him strong enough to make him cry out. He wrung his hand meekly and eyed the red sores; it looked like he'd burned them on a stove rather than a woman's lipstick container.

Somehow he'd suddenly contracted a fierce allergy to the fine metal. It was enough evidence to convince him, reluctant though he was. But not for a moment did he think he would remain contaminated by this sickness. With enough time and diligence, Crane was certain he could find a way to cure himself. With a brilliant chemical mind such as his, how could he possibly go wrong?

Crane returned to the kitchen, a jaunty spring in his step. Now that he knew what was wrong with him, all he had to do now was fix it. Which, considering his expertise in chemicals, shouldn't take very long. His stomach was now feeling much more at ease, so he started making himself some dinner. Despite his evening escapades, he was still hungry – starving even. Perhaps that was also a sign of the illness. No matter. For now his strange cannibalistic tastes would have to deal with a frozen meal.


	6. A Big Mouth

Chapter 6: A Big Mouth

Crane took a deep breath in, allowing the scent to fill his lungs. There was simply nothing quite like that old and musty smell. In all the universities, hospitals, and asylums he'd visited over the years, simply nothing could quite compete with the smell of an old public library – and especially a stack of old books. He smiled, flipping his thumb over the heavy, uneven pages; his mind jumping back to his younger years and the many nights he'd spent with a stack of psychology journals. How long ago that now seemed. He took a sip of his hazelnut coffee and shuddered a bit as it warmed him up from the inside. The building was always kept a little chilly, though Crane didn't mind. The cold kept him focused. He glanced out the tall windows that stretched up the side wall, looking up to the shadowy behemoths that made up Gotham's skyline. The rain was pouring down from the cloudy sky above, and with the small yellow lamp flicked on at his table, Crane decided it was the perfect day to be inside reading.

He took another sip of his coffee before diving into the books. Lycanthropy, werewolves, were-cats, were-hyenas – they were all listed and referenced and described in so much detail that he couldn't decide if the author was trying to deify them or describe the creatures. But there were some shreds of instruction listed here and there: items that could prevent a werewolf bite, locations that the creatures were prone to attacking, everything down to their mating rituals. He rolled his eyes and skipped ahead a few pages. Mating rituals weren't exactly what he was interested in, though he doubted he'd be strutting out into the woods to frolic with a she-wolf any time soon. It was moments like these that made him embarrassed to be reading this muck. Still, this was all he had to go on, so he had no choice.

With a stretch, he decided this was as good a time as any for a restroom break, and was pleased to find the facility quite empty. A quick look down each of the stalls told him he was indeed alone, so he took a moment to reapply the glue on his fake blonde beard and mustache. His long blonde dreads were still intact, and the brown contact lenses satisfactorily made him look nothing like Jonathan Crane, the escaped Arkham Asylum inmate. Black t-shirt, jeans – honestly not even Batman himself would recognize him in this getup. He smirked before heading back out to the tables.

The rain was truly lashing the windows now, and Crane smiled at the nervous glances a few of the customers made up at the sky. They were trying so hard to hide their anxiety. He ought to come by more often when the weather was bad. One man had his laptop up, staring at the red and yellow weather patterns moving in slow motion across a map of Gotham. Nearby an older woman whispered to a child that the storm wouldn't last very long. All in the blissful environment of the library – what a beautiful way to spend the day!

Unfortunately, Crane knew he had work to do and partaking of others' fears wasn't part of it. At least not today, he promised himself. He wandered back to his table, his brow furrowing when he noticed his books had vanished. Honestly, was the librarian that intent on shelving them? He searched around for a moment, looking for the cart where books to be shelved were typically stored. It was on the other side of the floor, and it didn't contain a single one of his werewolf books. Now he was starting to get agitated. If not the librarian, then who?

He returned to his desk, his gaze shifting over the surrounding tables until he spotted a book on top of a stack with a very familiar werewolf rendition. The silhouetted creature was howling to a completely disproportional moon behind him – very romanticized. And the man sitting at the table –

Crane paused. His heart was racing suddenly and for some reason he was certain he was being threatened. It was instinctive, like the growling of a cat before it pounced, or the rattling of a snake tail before the strike. He simply knew he was in danger. The man before him was extremely well built, but Crane had certainly never reacted to a bodybuilder like this. What was wrong with him?

The dark-haired man put down the book he was reading, turning his cold gaze onto him. Crane felt a chill move down his back, blinked, and looked away.

"You're scrawnier than I thought you'd be."

"Excuse me, sir," Crane continued, pretending not to have heard him. "It appears my books were misplaced. Sorry about that." He casually picked up the pile and placed them in the crook of his arm, but the man kept staring with a stupid smile on his face. "Is there something wrong?" The man stood his full height towering. A pit started to form in his belly, and Crane chastised himself mentally for such weakness.

"The name's Tony, Doc."

Crane narrowed his eyes slightly, the name Tony sounded terribly familiar with his face. Did this man really know him? He started wracking his brain trying to recall where he'd seen this guy before. "Mine's Luke, and I assure you I'm certainly not a doctor."

Tony shook his head, "Whatever you say, i_Luke_/i. Look, can we just find a place to talk for a few minutes? Then you can go back to your research without a problem."

Continuing his look of silent rage, he nodded. "Fine, let me check these out first."

"Sure thing," Tony nodded. Crane could feel his presence behind him as he headed to the reception desk, but his mind was still racing. The Asylum? No, he had the physique of a guard, and none of them had liked him much during his time there? The University then? Perhaps a former student? He shook his head as he slid the pile of books across to the long-haired woman across from him. It was pointless, he'd known far too many people, had more connections than seemed necessary now, and had a regrettably faulty mind for keeping track of his numerous acquaintances. But surely he would recall a man with such a powerful physique.

When he turned around again, of course Tony was behind him. This time he'd sported some thin rounded sunglasses for their trip outside. Crane rolled his eyes. It was pouring outside. Maybe the fellow was involved with the mob? He smiled to himself at that thought. After ruining precious library time, Crane was in the mood to see this idiot under fear toxin.

Hot and salty, the French fry was dripping with unhealthiness, but damn it tasted so good. It had been forever since Crane had been to a McDonald's, and since he was not terribly interested in being alone with his incredibly muscular acquaintance, he'd opted for a private spot out in the open. And besides, the smell of the fries was irresistible in the rain.

"So let me get this straight," Crane sipped on his Coca Cola; he thought it made him look a bit more pensive. "You're telling me there's nothing supernatural with your transformation at all?"

Tony nodded, chewing bits of his Big Mac and rarely taking his eyes off of him. It was getting to be quite a nuisance. "No, at least not that I know of. Milo was pretty secretive about how he got hold of it. Something about Timber Wolves."

Crane sighed for what felt like the tenth time this afternoon. And here he'd been afraid of this man. "Timber wolves, eh? Well that certainly makes it plausible."

Tony put his sandwich down for a moment. Probably for the first time since they'd sat down. "Yeah, I know it sounds pretty ridiculous…"

"No, my friend. I've heard ridiculous before. There's a big difference between that and crazy. I should know."

Tony turned his gaze down to his sandwich, but said nothing. Crane hoped that meant he'd prodded him properly. It was one of the few joys he was getting out of this whole conversation.

"Milo, Milo…" Crane muttered aloud as he stirred his drink. "Why does that name sound familiar…?"

"He said he used to be a chemist?"

Crane smiled, the slanderous newspaper headlines suddenly returning to him. That uppity research intern of Dr. Langstrom's that thought he deserved all the glory. And then they found out he was doing illegal experiments on humans. How humiliating that must have been, not to mention sloppy. Apparently, whatever punishment he did get wasn't enough to prevent him from messing with Tony and, indirectly, Crane himself.

He took a sip of his drink. "Professor Milo, wasn't it?"

"Did you know him? Were you familiar with his work?"

"No, I didn't know him, but I knew of him. He was all over the scientific journals when it happened. Didn't you see them?"

Tony's incredulous look said enough. And for some reason his expression brought back a colorful children's cereal commercial Crane hadn't seen for years. Big muscular athlete eating a bowl of potentially radioactive fluorescent cereal and kids running up to hug him. Or something like that, but yes, that shocked look was exactly the one he'd had in the commercial.

"Tony, is that short for Anthony perhaps?"

Tony had been eating with his head down, still chomping away at his food as though he hadn't eaten in weeks. But now his eyes focused on him again. "Vhy do thoo asqu?" he muffled around a wad of fries.

Crane leaned forward, reveling in the slight look of panic coming over the man. "Does it stand for Anthony… Romulus, perhaps?"

They locked eyes for a few moments, neither saying a word. It was like a stare down between dogs, and Crane knew he'd hit the jackpot. Unable to resist, he continued, "You were a wealthy athlete, weren't you? Ended up winning all those awards and trophies – what was it, two years ago?"

Crane noticed the slight catch of breath Romulus took. Oh, this was too easy!

"And I bet," Crane lounged back in his chair, putting his arms behind his head. "I bet all those honors weren't really your work at all – they were Milo's. You put your life in the hands of that wacko and thought you could pay him off?" He shook his head, "You're either an idiot or –"

Suddenly Crane couldn't breathe. Fingers were tight around his neck, just over his Adam's apple, and they were squeezing. Crane's eyes went wide and he scrambled to pull off the vice-like hand, but already he knew he wouldn't be able to.

"You know, I was going to do this the easy way, Doc. I really was."

One mustached man came over, reaching one hand up to pat Romulus' arm. "It's okay man, no need to get rough now."

Never moving his eyes away from Crane, Romulus placed his other hand on the man's chest and shoved with about as much force as you might use for closing a car door. The man on the other hand went flying to the front of the restaurant, skidding across the top of the cashier's counter and slamming into a wall of freshly prepared sandwiches. Then panic ensued.

Crane could hear the other patrons of the restaurant screaming and hurrying out the doors. Several McDonald's employees leapt over the countertop and ran out with them. A couple moved over to check on the man who'd tried to stop him, but gave Crane a look of apologetic ambivalence. He'd been written off as a lost cause. He couldn't really blame them though; he'd have been the first person out the door if he could. The pain was starting to be excruciating now, and he could feel his chest starting to convulse as his body attempted to pull in air.

"Que – still – kan –. " Talking this through with him was the only option Crane had left. Otherwise he'd be strangled to death in a McDonald's of all places. How degrading would that be? Batman would probably adore that headline. Put it up in his bedroom or something. As his vision started to get darker, Crane forced himself to stay focused.

Diplomacy wasn't good enough. If he wanted to survive this he had to use the only tool this man would listen to: fear. He pointed with both hands toward the main door of the restaurant. His head felt swollen as if it would burst if he didn't get loose soon.

"Ke Poleesse" he whispered.

Romulus looked around then, suddenly realizing that the room was not only empty but off in the distance there were indeed police sirens heading in their direction. Crane could only see his general movements now, his vision was getting far too dark as though the world were on a dimmer switch. With what sounded like a growl, Romulus finally released his grip, dropping him onto the cold tile. Crane didn't even have enough energy left in him to land on his hands and knees, instead slumping into a pile onto the floor, his face now a purple-blue. He choked in the air and felt his lungs ache with relief.

"Damn it, Doc." Romulus said from above, and then Crane was in the air again, but this time looking from behind as Romulus had draped him over his shoulder. He looked on in strange regret at the half container of fries he'd left on the table. And he probably wouldn't be able to come back to a McDonald's for a long time after this fiasco.

Why couldn't he keep his big mouth shut for once?


	7. Falling into Place

Chapter 7: Falling into Place

They were moving for what seemed like hours for Crane. His vision was slow to return to normal and his neck ached terribly, the bouncing of Romulus' gait not helping matters. They moved in and out of abandoned streets and dark alleyways they moved, the afternoon sunlight rarely hitting them, and Crane couldn't spot any people following them. He's done this before, Crane realized with dread. The man's gotten so used to moving through the city unnoticed that he's probably mapped out all these deserted streets in his head. And then another realization came to him: Why wasn't he trying to get Milo to do this? Could he have also been stolen away in a similar matter? Had he not been fortunate enough to free himself from Romulus' death grip?

Finally Romulus slowed to a stop, his breathing only a bit faster than it had been at the restaurant. The man was certainly in good shape, meaning that running away from him was certainly out of the question. Crane looked around, trying to identify where they were. The squat buildings that surrounded them were slum-like masses, all of them slowly turning a faded gray-brown with age. Cracked windows were everywhere. They could be in the Narrows, Crane hoped, but then again there were plenty of slum districts within Gotham. And the fact that he hadn't seen a single lunatic along the way indicated they were in an even more deserted part of the city.

With a loud clank, Romulus pushed open the door. Crane tried to maneuver his way around to see where they were headed, but he couldn't see past his captor's muscular back. Romulus entered the building and turned to close the door behind him, spinning around enabling Crane to take in the entirety of the room. The place had obviously been used as a factory at one point in time, the high steel walls and corrugated steel flooring made that unmistakable. The only means of light were the windows near the forty foot high ceiling that circled the entirety of the room. Some were missing panes of glass and others caked with the muck of time, so the dim sunlight that entered gave the room a very dismal appearance. The heavy equipment had long since been removed, so that only a few sparse metallic tables were left behind. Then the smell hit him, putrid and rank he coughed in an attempt to keep the rising bile in place. Romulus laughed, his shoulders vibrating with the sound.

"Do you like the place?"

Crane covered his nose with his sleeve. "It's charming." His voice was still scratchy; even saying so little made his throat ache.

Romulus pushed the door closed with a reverberating slam before setting Crane down atop one of the tables. "Now look, Doc. You're going to tell me exactly where to get the supplies you need for this, and you're going to work on an antidote. No more problems, no more interruptions."

Crane sighed, but nodded his head slowly. "And if I refuse?"

"Then we get a repeat of what happened at McDonald's. Only this time I don't let go," he let out a short bark of laughter. As a psychiatrist, Crane had to wonder how long the man had been living on his own, and how it had impacted his mental capacities. He had obviously not been living within the city long, or else the animal attacks would have been making headlines more frequently. Living alone out in the woods, or wherever he'd been, obviously hadn't done much to beat the spoiled attitude out of him.

"Hmm, not much of an option there. Alright, so since you failed to bring any of the books I might have used, how am I supposed to have any idea where to start?"

Romulus crossed the room to a darkened corner and shoved a number of items aside: a stained duffel bag, a torn pair of jeans, and a broken chair. Finally he returned, a crumpled paper within one fist. "You can use this. It's Milo's original formula. It should at least get you started."

He unfolded the paper, and held it up to the dingy light. Crane could make out the hasty scribbling of a formula and some notes, with several splatters of dried blood along the bottom. He nodded, trying to keep his panic to a minimum. Milo had obviously not only been forced to write this out, but had possibly been killed directly afterwards. Incredible what people will do for a chemical compound. He wondered what Romulus had done with the body afterwards: Had he buried it nearby? No, it was probably festering in a dumpster somewhere. Crane then had a disturbing image of his and Milo's bodies piled in the same metallic trash bin, making a lovely home for the worms and insects within. God, this wasn't helping his nerves.

"Alright," his voice was shaking. "Well let me take a look and figure out what I'll need first. Do you have any clean paper I can use? Or is everything around here marked by eau de Milo?"

The pieces to the puzzle were starting to fall into place, though Batman didn't like where they were pointing. Earlier this afternoon one of Gordon's units had been called in on an assault report at a local fast food restaurant; nothing extravagant, just two customers in a fight. But then the details started to get strange. Somehow the assailant had shoved a man across the restaurant with a single hand, though Batman was fairly certain this was an embellishment on the part of the witnesses. Even if the assailant was a body builder, that kind strength – and the ease of using it – was near impossible. If that wasn't strange enough, he then nearly choked another man to death before throwing him over a shoulder and running out the door – not exactly the typical response of a hunted criminal. On top of that oddity, there were a pile of library books left on the table which had been checked out only about half an hour before by a Luke Sanderson. Oddly enough there was no record of anyone by that name living within Gotham. The nearest one was in Metropolis, and he had no Gotham library card.

The suspect was a large, black-haired man who was heavily built. The victim a scrawny short man with blonde hair, mustache, and beard. At first Batman had written it off as a drug trade gone sour, as Gordon's men had determined. The victim was obviously using a false identity, and the disagreement between the two had heated to a fight followed by a kidnapping. But the number of witnesses that reported the man being shoved across the room stayed in his mind. Perhaps they were telling the truth. On a hunch Batman had decided to look up the books that had been checked out by the victim.

All of the eight books that had been checked out had a similar thread: lycanthropy.

After seeing Crane transform in front of him the other night, he had a good idea who the victim was now. However he still had to confirm the attacker, even though he had a pretty good idea of who it was. The animalistic attacks that had been cropping up across Gotham had the entire city panicked, especially now with the suspicion that there were two of these creatures. Batman had been fairly certain Romulus was behind it from the beginning. No native carnivorous animal within miles of the city would have the ability to do that much damage and not be caught. And he'd faced Romulus in his wolfish form before, though the man had fled the city years ago.

Earlier this evening, he'd convinced the manager at the McDonald's to give him a copy of the surveillance tape from the day. It hadn't been very difficult: she just wanted a Batarang to give to her son as a souvenir, making it perhaps the easiest piece of evidence he'd ever obtained. The cops hadn't looked at the surveillance video since there had been plenty of witnesses involved to tell them what had happened. Returning to the cave, he'd done some image analysis of the two men and came up with exact matches of them: Anthony Romulus and Jonathan Crane. Not that he'd really been surprised, but it helped to verify his initial hunches.

Since Milo's disappearance from Blackgate six months ago, Batman had been on the lookout for him. He'd assumed he'd broken out of prison on his own, and due to his extensive mob connections Batman had expected his thirty year sentence to be cut short. But Romulus' interest in Crane now pointed at something entirely different. Romulus was still bent on a cure for Milo's toxin, and Crane was one of the best and most feared chemists in town. After six months, Milo was more than likely dead, and Crane would be soon to follow if he chose not to cooperate. The man's narcissistic tendencies meant that he'd more than likely not be up for following orders, regardless of whether or not it meant his death

Batman only hoped he could stop Romulus' rampage before he killed again.

Crane opened his bleary eyes and put on his glasses, still sitting exactly where he'd left them the night before. He glanced at the tiny scrap paper beside him, and scowled at the six jagged markings he'd made for each of the days he'd been here. Had it really been a full week? He scrawled out the seventh marking on his scrap paper with the forcefulness of a doomed man. For that's exactly what he felt had happened. Somehow the great Scarecrow, the terrifying mastermind behind the gassing of the Narrows, had been kidnapped. Imprisoned by a steroid junkie athlete dropout who was foolish enough to actually i_ask_/i for this crappy toxin running in their veins.

He kicked off the sleeping bag with begrudging acceptance and wandered over to his lab table. In addition to excellent sleeping accommodations, Crane was also fortunate enough to have not another scrap of clothing other than what he was wearing. And his requests for clean garments were mocked, or answered with an order to return to the work. A week without a shower for Crane was like a week without laughing for Joker, or a week without flipping a coin for Two-Face. It just made him quake with disgust at every scent of his own body odor and every greasy strand of hair that got in his face. Even dogs got baths.

For a moment he bitterly eyed the stool he'd been given as a chair for the week, deciding that his rear was far too sore from sitting on it yesterday for him to resort to it quite yet. The notes he'd taken on Milo's work were sprawled across the table, and even glancing at it made his head throb. It was a complete mystery how the hell Milo had created the cure for his home grown lycanthropy out of such an absurd formula. Nothing he tried had worked, and Crane had come to the conclusion that the formula itself was incorrect. He suspected that Milo had played one final trick upon his foolish patient, knowing full well that Romulus would kill him after getting it. Crane could only guess how long Milo had been attempting to create the cure before giving Romulus this garbage. Apparently he'd been unable to stand such treatment any more than Crane could. But unlike Milo, Crane wasn't about to give the satisfaction of his death to his tormentor. Hell, he'd give the man him grape juice and tell him it was the cure if it meant getting a moment to escape.

Of course explaining Milo's fake formula to Romulus was completely out of the question. Crane knew the man wouldn't believe him, and who knew what the punishment would be for delivering that gem of information. No, Crane either had to think his way out of this mess, or miraculously find the cure to a disease he'd only just begun to understand.

Dragging a hand through his hair and cringing at the stiffness of the follicles, Crane took another look around the room. Other than the numerous stainless steel tables there was little else of use. The pile of random belongings from which Romulus had pulled Milo's note was still strewn about in the corner beside a large freezer chest. Crane had gone through the pile a few times but everything looked simply useless. Then there was the steel circular stairway that went up to the second floor. That was where Romulus typically stayed, within what must have once been the foreman's quarters. Crane truly had no desire to lurk up there unless he had no other option, so that left the remaining doors on this level: the exit and a smaller doorway that looked like it went to a storage room. That room was always locked, and although Romulus had only entered a couple of times, he'd come out with reloaded guns and fresh knives. Strategically it was the best option, since he was sure he wouldn't get away even if he were to escape without a weapon.

With a new course of action in mind, Crane turned back to his lab table and started mixing chemicals with renewed vigor. He might be able to free himself from the bastard after all.


	8. An Unexpected Death

**Chapter 8: An Unexpected Death**

Surely it couldn't be this easy.

Never removing his eyes from his target, Batman made his way across the dilapidated rooftops with ease, his feet often more aware of the path than he was. He wished this smooth ability was due to his years of experience at fighting crime within the city, but really he'd just been making passes down these same streets every night for the past week. Romulus had fled in this direction with Crane, meaning that one of these buildings was likely his hideout. And likely where he was keeping Crane, if the man was still alive.

He knew Romulus would have to come here at some point, it was the only English-speaking grocery in the vicinity. Batman just had to have patience and wait for his prey to come to the local watering hole. He just didn't think it'd be this soon. Perhaps he and Crane had a higher metabolism now that was causing them to need food more often? Possibly there were multiple werewolves in the area that Romulus had changed and who now needed food? Hopefully that wasn't the reason.

His pace quickened as Romulus changed his path down the alleyways, melding with the shadows and forcing Batman to pull out his heat sensory optical overlay. Usually he saved this type of technology for analyzing a potential ambush, but considering he was dealing with a creature with heightened senses he figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

Ten minutes went by, and Romulus' pace had quickened to a swift walk after leaving the streets. He was trying to avoid attracting attention, and Batman wasn't surprised. His face was well known, and even years after losing his athletic career he'd now become a mystery and legend. When his quarry came to a halt, Batman dropped to the ground instinctively. He turned his heat vision into a binocular view, peering cautiously at his prey through a drainage grate. The burly man turned slowly, his eyes looking down all the streets, alleys, and rooftops; his nose up and sniffing the air. Batman could only hope the man hadn't caught his scent. If he was going to get Crane out of there alive, he couldn't be seen. Taking Romulus alone, that shouldn't be a problem. But taking out Romulus and unknown variable of other werewolves? Even Batman had his limitations.

Finally Romulus turned back to the building, pulled a key out of his pocket and let himself in. Damn, that was close. He'd have to find something to cover his scent if he wanted to get in there. The building was tall with almost no windows up to the roof where there was a long row of them circling the building. Clever. A skylight would have been perfect for an ambush, but those windows would be near to a deathtrap. He'd be off-balance on a pulley, and he'd be an easy target.

Batman flipped his vision back to normal. That confirmed it then: Romulus was expecting him.

The door opened smoothly then clicked with the lock, and Crane put down the chemical vials he was examining to turn to his tormentor. Romulus had a bag of groceries, or at least what i_he_/i deemed food. In Crane's opinion a large paper bag full of frozen meat was hardly a meal: yet another item on his list of outrages, and another reason for him to torture the man as soon as he was capable. As if Romulus suspected what Crane was turning to say, he was already shaking his head.

"No, I didn't get you any soap. Or shampoo for that matter. If I got you those, you'd be too distracted from your work to get anything done."

"I assure you I'm far more distracted without bathing items. I'm not entirely sure how you survive in such squalid conditions, but I am not fond of carrying my own stink cloud with me."

Romulus dug an arm deep into the paper bag and pulled out a container of shampoo. Crane narrowed his eyes.

"I never said I didn't take baths, Doc." He dropped the bag onto one of the numerous tables and started moving up the rickety circular staircase, his feet clanging against the metal stairs as he moved up toward the foreman's office. "Put those in the freezer. We might be having company tonight."

Crane blinked. Company? He wasn't sure who the hell a bastard like Romulus was expecting to have over, but he could guess that he wasn't going to like them. He moved over to put the bag of meat into the giant floor freezer in the corner, watching until Romulus was out of sight and making sure he heard the click of his door. Then he sprung over to the smaller storage door and pulled a tiny vial out of his pocket. He had no intention of staying in this hell hole any longer.

With a dropper he applied three drops onto the dead bolt and smiled at the low hiss. A tendril of smoke came out and he waited a few seconds watching the tiny metal bolt melt under the toxin. Crane made sure to keep his distance until the compound was complete, then pushed gingerly upon the door. There was a slight thump when the door got halfway open, but Crane wasn't trying to open it completely. The smell emanating from the room was horrid, but he didn't have time for queasiness. More than likely this was where Romulus kept his trash, relying on the stink to deter potential theft. The gap left plenty of room to move his slim form past and inside. He fumbled momentarily for the light switch before the tiny bulb flared on and filled the tiny room with an aged golden haze.

The room wasn't large, not that he'd expected it to be. But along the walls in front of him and on either side were mounted gun racks, with a large variety of daggers and firearms. Crane rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Obviously Romulus had been collecting these for a while, but he hadn't expected so many!

He rushed forward, fumbling for a couple of blades and one of the smaller revolvers. In his haste he left the door ajar, and in just a few short moments it closed with a polite click. It wasn't loud of course, but the noise made Crane halt in mid-grab for a second knife. Quiet though it was, he knew it was still loud enough for Romulus to have heard it. Then from behind him, the door was pushed open with a violent crash, the hinges squealing against the strain. Before Crane could even turn, he was up in the air. He could feel Romulus' hand gripping the scruff of his collar, his own feet flailing off the ground.

"Hmm, I was wondering when you'd find him."

"What?" Crane shoved his fingers down next to his collar to keep from being strangled by his own shirt. "What are you talking about?"

Romulus sat him back down on his feet, "You mean you didn't see our friend here?"

Crane turned, coughing to clear his throat. When he turned around he gasped, backing painfully into the gun rack behind him. Hanging from a worn and dirty orange extension cord was Dr. Milo himself. The white eyes were wide and glassy, staring up into the sky. His face, once frequently flushed, was now pale white and the cheeks had caved from the weeks of decay. Beneath him lay a small pile of weeks-old feces and urine which Crane realized with growing despair he must've walked right through. The obstacle he hit when he entered the room he realized, his heart racing, must've been Milo's body: just on the other side of this door, watching him work all this time.

Crane felt his legs losing their strength, could feel the blood fleeing from his face and the world was starting to spin. He'd known Milo, at least as a young researcher. Had Romulus driven him to this? A brilliant mind such as his hanging himself in a closet?

Romulus took a step to the side, smiling at the corpse and folding his arms across his chest. "I think he ran in here wanting to shoot himself really, but I don't think he had the guts for it. Hanging's a pretty bad way to go, eh Doc?"

Crane wanted to move his lips, but it was taking all his energy right now to keep breathing. In and out, breathing that putrid, disgusting odor which had at one time been his acquaintance.

"Well that's why I bit you, if you must know. Milo here ran out on me, as you can see. The bastard would've rather died than help."

He had no idea what the hell Romulus was talking about, but Crane knew he had to get out of this room. Staring up into Milo's dead lifeless eyes, and more importantly knowing that this could quite easily be his own fate, was more disgusting and freakish than any torment he could have imagined.

Romulus was watching him closely, and flexed his wrist once before slamming his fist into the corpse's face. The frail neck snapped easily, and the body fell into a heap on its own feces, the head flying off into another stack of gun racks. Crane let out a yelp of shock before rushing out of the closet and back into the lab. But just as he exited the tiny room, his legs gave out, and he hit the cold ground as he finally blacked out.

When Batman decided to become Gotham City's protector, he knew he would have to face moments like this. Times of anger, disgust, outrage. Still, as he hung next to one of the windows of the old factory building, it took all his training and dedication to keep him focused on what had to be done. Milo hadn't been a decent man by any means, but Romulus' total disregard for his life spoke volumes. Even as deranged and inhuman as his Anthony Romulus had become, Batman couldn't give up on him. Any more than he could give up on Crane who'd just passed out only feet away from the corpse of his chemist predecessor. No, even for animals like Romulus, he had to believe there was hope. Sometimes that was the only thing that kept him from murder.

Slowly Romulus was leaning down to Crane, and regardless of the risks, Batman knew he had to act. He kicked back off the building's edge and then allowed gravity to take hold and carry him through the window itself, his boots shattering the glass. The dart gun was extended, and Batman took the shot, cursing to himself as Romulus just barely jumped aside. He extended his cape and his feet crunched to the floor in a shower of shards.

"It's about time you showed up. I was hoping you weren't just following me for kicks you know."

"Romulus, you want help and I can give it to you. I know you're looking for an antidote."

With a smile, Romulus shook his head. "Sorry, Bats but your help means locking me up forever. No, I wouldn't trade my freedom to make your city safer."

Crane was still unconscious. Batman could only hope he'd be able to stall Romulus long enough to allow him to come to his senses, or at least keep Romulus focused on him. A dive for Crane would only make them both vulnerable. "Think of the lives you've taken, Romulus. The beast inside you is the cause of this cruelty. Do you remember your sports career? You had a home, family, and friends. Let me help you return to them."

Romulus was crouched against the wall, his eyes wide with fury. "I'm glad you showed, Batman." Then he stretched his arms forward, his spine lengthening as his feet remained planted. "I've been looking forward to seeing you again."

Batman kept his eyes fixed on him, preparing himself for when Romulus would lunge at him. The man's fingers were growing longer as long black claws ruptured from the base of his nails, pushing off the shelled fingertips. Romulus winced slightly, but didn't seem to mind terribly much as coarse black fur started emerging from behind his ears and his eyes became inhumanly large. Batman tried not to be shocked by this, but the differences between Romulus and Crane's transformations were incredible. Crane obviously couldn't change at will; otherwise he would have escaped the warehouse. However Romulus had been able to transformwithout almost any effort. Was Romulus' disease different from Crane's, or was Crane simply too recently infected?

Romulus' body was now covered in fur, his shirt badly torn but still barely hanging on. His jeans fell off in tattered bits and as Romulus removed what had been his legs from the material, Batman noticed the feet were now thickly furred paws equipped with blackened claws. Then Romulus' head started to change, and he was unable to withstand the pain any longer. He howled against it and shook as his mouth and nose extended outwards.

While he was distracted, Batman pulled up the dart gun and let fly first one then two darts into Romulus' side. The howls increased in pitch and intensity as the beast glared at him with bright yellow eyes, his face still not completely changed. Batman took the opportunity to run to Crane's limp body, scooping him up over his shoulder. From behind, the claws were scratching across the metal floor as the creature bounded toward him. Batman leapt over one of the tables and shot a grappling hook into the glass window he'd entered through earlier. He pulled into the air even as a sharp pain tore across his leg. He looked over his shoulder to see the creature pacing back and forth, his large eyes never leaving the two figures and his long purple tongue lapping in anticipation of a meal.

Batman hooked the base of the grapple onto his belt as he tried to wake the man he'd only just narrowly rescued. "Crane, wake up. I need your help."

Crane squeezed his eyes as he forced himself awake, his heavy lids opening slowly to the nauseatingly bright room. The smell of Milo's corpse was still terribly strong within his mouth, and he had to resist the urge to vomit. As his stomach finally settled, he realized that not only was he dangling precariously in the air, but that Batman was holding him. He blinked in confusion before looking down to the hairy mass beneath them. Romulus was moving casually about the room, carrying one of the large tables over and laying it atop of another.

"He – he's changed!"

"Yes, I know." Batman glanced over his shoulder before returning to Crane. "I need your help to stop him. He's going to find a way up here eventually. I've pumped him full of tranquilizers, but they don't seem to be kicking in."

Crane nodded, still trying to shake off his nausea. "I had no idea he could transform at will."

"Look at him closely, Crane. Is he the same creature that bit you originally?"

Crane knew exactly what he was getting at, and he gave Batman a long stare before turning to study the werewolf below. "You think there's more than one of him?"

"If there are, I need to know. Now."

Crane squinted down at the creature, wishing he still had his glasses and wondering when they'd fallen off. Romulus' black fur was dark as night against the gleaming silver metal throughout the room. Black, hadn't the one in the field been gray? And he hadn't had anything more than moonlight to view the creature before, not that he'd been trying to catalogue the color at the time. He shook his head, "I don't know."

Batman leaned in closer, "Then you have doubts?"

"Well, I mean… the one was gray, he's black. And I wasn't exactly complimenting his fur coat the last time we met!"

"But Romulus believes he's the one that bit you."

"Well yes, he does."

Romulus had piled three tables now and began climbing, his weight making the tables creak under his weight and slide in loud shrieks along the floor.

"Hang on, Crane." Batman muttered, and Crane obeyed, linking his arms around the Bat's neck even though the very thought would have typically made him roll his eyes. Batman removed the grappling hook from his belt, and placed a hand firmly on the window ledge. Then he detached the hook itself from the open window and as Crane positioned himself so he could look down from beneath Batman's arm and around his cape, Romulus had reached the top table, and was leaning down to lunge in their direction.

"Hurry it up, Batman!"

Batman put away the grapple and clutched Crane to his chest. As Romulus leapt from the top precipice of his makeshift ladder, Batman pushed off from the wall and back flipped onto his feet on the opposite side of the room. Watching from over his shoulder, Crane watched as Romulus pushed his muzzle out to try and grab the Bat with his teeth before slamming into the metal wall. Then the world turned upside down as the Bat flipped in midair and Crane shut his eyes tight against the vertigo. As soon as his feet hit the ground, the Bat was on the move. Not out the exit as Crane had hoped, but into the closet with Milo's corpse.

"What? Where are you going!"

But Crane's words were ignored as Batman leapt into the room and closed the door behind them. Then he pulled off one of the gun racks and wedged it between the door handle and his foot, only moments before the resounding slam told them Romulus had tried to follow. Then the beast started his assault, hitting the door over and over again. Crane backed up and nearly fell over Milo's body, a few flies went past his face and he leaned against the wall as he tried to keep his composure.

"Why," he gasped. "Why did you corner us! We could've gotten out, we could've been on the roof by now!"

"Because Romulus wouldn't stay inside for long. He'd follow us, ripping apart anyone that got in his way."

Crane rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So you were afraid of people getting hurt. Did it ever occur to you that he might do far worse damage to us?"

Batman reached over and pulled out some knives, sliding them in under his belt. "We'll stay put and take a stand here."

"No, those aren't going to do you any good. Not unless they're covered in silver."

"Are you serious?"

"Why would I joke about something like that?"

"I assumed that was only myth." Batman grit his teeth as he braced his body against the door. He was starting to realize just how bad of an idea it had been to come into this room. He'd been acting on instincts, and this room had looked defendable. Now he doubted the door would last more than an hour with Romulus throwing his weight against it every few moments. It creaked and groaned with every hit.

Crane started pacing in the cramped little room, attempting not to look at Milo's body, but his eyes always returning to it again. The ugly orange extension cable was so bright in this tiny room, it was no wonder his eyes were attracted to it. He followed it up with his eyes in an attempt to keep his mind off the body, and saw it loop around a few pipes on the ceiling. He blinked, wondering how in the world Milo had been able to reach so high in the room to tie that cable. He squinted up to it, and saw a tiny outline of a door at the top. Some kind of crawl space? He put a hand on one of the mounted gun racks, wondering if it would hold his weight.

"What are you doing?"

Crane turned to him and placed a finger against his lips, "Pacing, what does it look like I'm doing?"

Batman nodded, he hadn't been certain Romulus could hear them but it made sense. He watched silently as he kept his back bracing the door.

Crane climbed up the levels of gun racks, his thin legs and arms looking a bit spiderlike as he easily pulled himself up. The lycanthropy strength was certainly something to be grateful for at the moment. When he reached the top, he dragged his fingers across the edges until he found the handle. It was dusty, but certainly not as much as the rest of the room. He pulled hard on it, and felt the slight click as it came down an inch. Then he put his fingers into the gap and pulled down a ladder. Although he'd expected it to creak and moan, the sides of the ladder looked well-oiled as though someone had taken care of it. His eyes returned back to the extension cable knot on the pipes, it must have been Milo he realized. And even as he said this he spotted the scratch marks on the knot, deep scratches that ate into the cable exposing the multicolored wires within. Milo hadn't tied that knot. He looked down at the decapitated body again, then to the separate head not far from it. Milo hadn't hung himself, he'd been murdered. But why?

The ladder halted as it reached its final length, and Crane crawled swiftly down to the ground again. When he'd gotten down, Batman glanced up at the ladder questioningly. Crane held up a finger to wait, and then held the sleeve up to his nose as he moved over to Milo's corpse. He started with the front pockets then with the pants pockets. All were empty. Maybe he hadn't had anything that threatened Romulus after all. Maybe he'd just killed him on a whim. But something was off. He looked at the stub of the neck again and at the markings on the neck where the extension cord was still looped. The skin damage there was not raw and bruised where the body had struggled against the cable, but instead it looked like it had been hung post-mortem. How odd!

He checked the pockets again, wondering if he'd missed something. Then the curled skeletal hands, nothing clutched in their grip and it didn't look like anything had been held there. He sighed, glancing momentarily at the head again with its wide bulbous eyes and open mouth. Then the light caught something near the neck, sparkling metal momentarily. Crane approached it cautiously, kneeling down to examine it further. It looked like a chain emerging from the esophagus. He turned the head over and aimed the light down the gaping throat and saw a much larger gleam of metal. White metal.

He picked up the head and rushed over to Batman, who widened his eyes. Both his arms were braced against the gun racks on either side of the door, and his feet were planted firmly as his body reverberated with each pummeling the door took. Crane pointed down the corpse's mouth like a child showing his mom a particularly colorful caterpillar. Batman blinked in disgust momentarily, wondering why the hell Crane had decided to defile Milo's corpse, when he too saw the metal. Removing his hand for a moment, he reached into the mouth, grateful that he was wearing gloves. He found the angular metal and pulled hard on it, hearing the gooey pop of it being released from the tissue. The smell was horrid, but when he pulled it out completely he saw that it was a large white metal cross with a long chain. The edges of the cross were very angular and quite sharp, as though Milo had filed them down over time. Batman lifted it and nodded to Crane, who cringed and cautiously held the back of his hand toward the cross. When it barely had touched it he hissed in a breath and yanked it back instantly. Damn, if this was the effect it had on Crane when he barely touched it, he only hoped it would work on Romulus.

Batman looped the chain over his arm, then picked up more of the gun racks and secured them between the floor and the door. They wouldn't last, but it would buy them some time. He turned back to Crane, and was shocked to see he was placing Milo's head back near the corpse. He shook his head and grabbed him by the arm, pointing upwards. Crane nodded and started climbing. They went up the gun racks and then to the ladder. While Crane was able to move up the racks without incident, Batman was far heavier. Probably not just due to his weight but also the body armor, several of the racks fell off in mid-climb, and he had to move doubly quick to make sure he could make it up the side. Then they moved swiftly and silently up the ladder and into the dark crawl space.

Unlike the smell of the corpse below, this area smelled very much of treated wood. The ceiling was only about five feet from the floor, so the two of them had to crouch to move. When Crane turned to lift the ladder, Batman held a hand out to stop him. Crane's face was a mixture of shock and fear, and Batman held the sharp cross tightly in his grip.

Crane shuddered before nodding slowly. He only hoped the Batman knew what he was doing. Now they were in an even more cramped room, and with even fewer potential weapons. Crane pulled out the small pistol he'd grabbed earlier, checking to make sure it was loaded and that the safety was off. If they were going to die up here he wasn't about to go down without a fight.

Then the wolf crashed through the door, falling into the gun racks on the opposite wall and started circling the room with its nose in the air. Romulus was so large in this form that his body took up at least half the room so that circling was almost like spinning. Crane swallowed down the dry lump in his throat as Romulus' yellow gaze turned up to them. He growled deeply as bits of saliva fell from his jaws. Then he hunched up preparing to leap and Batman leaned over the gap, his hand with the cross staying hidden.

When Romulus leaped, his body lengthened as he sprung up, his black claws spread out as he gripped one of the middle ladder rungs. Crane's heart was pounding in his chest as he leaned forward, attempting to keep his gun steady. Romulus leaned back on the ladder then jumped again, his large head and open jaws coming just slightly up through the opening in the floor, and Batman struck. With a cry he revealed the gripped hand holding the large cross and brought it down into Romulus' left eye. Romulus cried out, his high pitched howl echoing within the tiny crawl space. The wolf then fell past the ladder, hitting the floor with a thud. The blood was oozing out of his eye, and slowly his body started to fade back into his human shape: first the head, then the arms, then his torso and finally his legs. Crane stared trying to calm his breathing as Batman dropped down from the opening. By thenRomulus was nothing more than a muscular naked man curled up, his screams of pain much more hollow as he clutched his injured eye with the large protruding cross.

Batman began tying him up with a thick black cable he'd produced from his belt. He'd already covered him with one of the tattered blankets from Crane's sleeping bag in the other room. He was wrapping the cable around Romulus' legs and arms, "Come on down, Crane."

Crane blinked, realizing that he hadn't moved since Batman's assault and shakily picked his way down the ladder, dropping down to the ground floor. "What's going to happen to him?"

"He'll be taken to St. Luke's Hospital, and I've already warned Gordon of what he's capable. You, on the other hand, have a major task ahead of you."

Crane blinked, "What?"

"You need to come up with a cure for this."

Crane shook his head, "I… I don't know if I can. The notes he left, they're all incomplete. Nothing seems to make sense from them."

"You have about fifteen minutes to search this entire building for his notes before the Gotham PD arrives. Be quick."


	9. Gaining Trust

Chapter 9: Gaining Trust

Actually it had been more like thirty minutes, but Crane hadn't complained. It didn't take him long to find Milo's notes shoved in a large cardboard box in the room Romulus had been using.

Batman had set him up in a temporary lab space, complete with all the digital equipment and microscopic technologies he'd need to create an antidote to the disease. But more importantly, he promised him decent food, a bath, and even a bed to sleep in. How could Crane refuse such an offer? Working backwards from Milo's complete notes was much easier than a single confusing formula. The man had a roundabout method of chemical creation, but Crane had to admit it had its own genius to it. It took him three days, during which Batman split his time between monitoring Crane and keeping an eye on Romulus at St. Luke's. The time had practically flown by for Crane, who was in his element and didn't have the threat of death hanging over his head. If only Romulus had been a bit more interested in cooperating instead of being a rampaging lunatic, the two of them might have worked well together, Crane mused.

"So this is it?" Batman took the vial of clear yellow liquid in his hand, examining it as though he could identify the stuff with the naked eye.

"Absolutely," Crane bragged. "All evidence of the lycanthropy was removed from my blood sample the moment it came into contact."

"And there are no side effects? No potential death or lingering effects of the lycanthropy?"

"No, none that I could find." Crane pulled off his blue plastic gloves, snapping them into the trash. "Oh Batman, what would you say to me keeping this place? Just in case you need access to my expertise again?"

Batman shook his head, "Not even in your dreams, Crane. This building is being completely relocated once you're finished.

"Oh," Crane looked across the clean, pristine white walls and stainless steel sink basins. How sad that it would just be picked up and removed once he was finished, but if Batman needed his aid once, he could bet he just might need it again. And even short bursts of access to a lab like this might just come in handy in the future. He just had to find a way to get Batman to trust him well enough to do this again. "So what now? You drag me off to Arkham?"

Batman nodded then gestured down to the vial. "How many of the inoculations are there?"

"Four. One for me, one for Romulus, and…"

Crane motioned down to the leg Batman had injured during the battle. It was bandaged now beneath the armor, but Crane still knew exactly where it was. "One for that love tap he gave you."

Batman nodded then motioned toward the vial, "You first."

Crane reached over to the metal holder and picked up one of the three yellow vials. "What about if we do it together?"

"On one condition: we swap first."

Crane rolled his eyes, "Honestly, you still don't trust me do you? Even after all this?" He traded his vial with Batman's, chuckling a bit as Batman examined it.

Batman shook his head, "Nice try, Crane."

"What?"

Batman tapped lightly on the side of his mask before pouring the toxin down the sink under the fume hood. He doubted that the green gas that emerged was part of the cure. Then he examined each of the remaining to vials to be sure Crane hadn't tainted them as well.

Crane sighed, folding his arms in annoyance. "Well you can't blame a man for trying."

"Don't play games with me. You knew I'd check them."

"Yes well, there's always the off chance you'd get lazy."

Batman smirked, settling on one of the remaining vials. "Bottoms up."

END

Author Note: I hope you enjoyed this piece! I would really appreciate it if you left a review - they definitely keep me wanting to write more fanfic! Also check out my profile for a link to a dark inked piece of artwork that was done just for this story.

- Lena


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